


and raise our glasses one more time

by loveandpride1895



Category: Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018), Queen (Band)
Genre: (lol), (or attempts at), Angst, Depression, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Humour, Implied Drug Use, Introspection, Mental Health Issues, tags will change as chapters are added
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-16
Updated: 2019-04-26
Packaged: 2020-01-15 05:47:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,246
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18492622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/loveandpride1895/pseuds/loveandpride1895
Summary: Queen, in five drinks.





	1. Moët & Chandon

"We drink Möet et Chandon... In this shitty apartment."

Freddie wasn't quite drunk enough yet for his singing to be off-key, but it was certainly closer than he'd usually allow. Roger - apparently considerably drunker - snorted with laughter and tipped his plastic cup of far too expensive champagne to his lips. Once empty, it clattered to the ground with a hollow din and rolled beside Brain's thigh, who was lying on the floor with a tattered cushion beneath his head. He acknowledged it with a glance down and his mouth twisted into a droopy smile. He chuckled lowly.

"Funny, innit," the words wrapped lazily around his teeth, an inebriated slur just beginning to tug on them, "We're at the top of the charts..." he pointed a finger upwards, "And your ceiling is more damp than... Well, ceiling."

Freddie followed Brian's finger with his gaze and quirked his eyebrows up with a mildly amused hum.

"Yeah," John said flatly, reaching out from where he was curled in the sofa to flick a peeling piece of wallpaper. "Hilarious. I can barely contain myself."

"That'll be the bubbles," Roger mumbled, before taking a swig directly from the bottle.

"Oi!" Freddie snatched it away from his lips, earning him a textbook pout. "We're sharing this out equally. Four equal parts to Queen, four equal levels of alcohol poisoning."

Freddie made a conscious effort to make eye contact with John as he asserted the band's equality. They were well past the days when he'd remain silent throughout rehearsals and walk on tiptoe around them as though they were going to bite, but there was still a palpable, lingering sense that he sometimes felt like a spare part. When Freddie, Brian and Roger were recording vocals and he was given the very important job of pressing buttons, or when the bass-line inevitably got lost beneath more piercing harmonies.

Roger's ferocity of temperament made it likely that any attempts he made to reassure John would turn accusatory (either outwardly or inwardly, neither of which would solve anything) and while Brian's capacity for emotion and intelligence each made up about 45% of his personality, they didn't always reconcile to create emotional intelligence.

So, reassuring John of his validity fell to Freddie, however subtly it manifested itself.

He could see from a minute tug of the lips that it was appreciated.

Brian struggled upwards onto his elbows. "We cannot afford to get alcohol poisoning from fucking Möet," he said, managing to sound scholarly even while jigging his cup around for a refill like a toddler asking for warm milk, "Or indeed anything."

"Rog seems to be managing," John snorted, rubbing his thumb along his bottom lip.

"Rog..." Roger said mischievously. He revelled in the curious looks from the others. "Has been mixing." He grinned, and produced a bottle of Jack Daniels from down the back of the sofa.

"Where in the name of Ava fucking Gardener did you get that?" Freddie breathed, voice hovering somewhere between impressed and betrayed.

"Aunt Heather might be off her rocker but my God is she a class woman," Roger slurred triumphantly, holding the bottle aloft and shaking it enticingly. Freddie made a snatch for it but missed, producing an almost supernatural cackle from the gleeful drummer.

Freddie narrowed his eyes dangerously, then with the feral, feline abandon leapt onto Roger's lap. The noise that came out of him would have sounded excellent on "In The Lap Of The Gods." He ended up sort of half straddling his ribcage, with the bottle still a couple of torturous inches out of reach. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw an amused John slide gingerly off the opposite end of the sofa to join Brian on the ground.

After a few minutes of fruitless struggling, he huffed and rolled off onto the floor, where he knelt and decided to employ Roger's earlier tactic. He pouted and and batted his (blessèdly - thank you mother) long eyelashes. "Share."

Roger shook his head petulantly.

"Please."

Another shake of the head.

"You're just as bad as them! The corporate parasites!"

Shake of the head.

"Do you want to be a corporate parasite, Roggie?"

"Aunt Heather will know."

"Just leeching off the good work of others-"

"That woman has powers-"

"Without a care in the world for anything but-"

"She'll put a curse on you and you'll have to write another bloody fae realm song-"

"Come on, just for one toast," Freddie cupped Roger's chin, silencing him, "One toast. Please. Then get as smashed as you please."

"...fine."

On first pour, Roger stretched only to a thimble-full each, but after a pointed look from Freddie he dutifully upgraded them all to a shot glass.

"What we toasting then?" John asked, inserting his cup into the little circle that was forming.

"Us of course, darling!" Freddie raised his glass. "To being stars!"

They clinked their glasses (or as close to a clink as plastic allows) then dissolved into an awkward but not wholly unpleasant hug. There was a silence that was rarely achieved when the four of them were together for a moment. It was finally broken by a muffled voice into Roger's shoulder.

"You know, we can actually do a lot better than stars. Stars are just balls of gas, helium and hydrogen mostly, and although they look pretty-"

"Shut up, Bri."


	2. Coffee

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> #recordingstudiobantz

"Come on love, one more." 

"My throat feels like a porcupine's arse-"

"One more and then you can lubricate yourself in any way you-"

"For fuck's... Don't say lubricate-"

"It won't sound as good if we - oh, mind out of the gutter, darling - it won't sound as good if we don't have enough overdubs." Freddie pouted through the glass screen into the box. Roger rolled his eyes. "Come on Rog, fuck up the critics with that glorious dog-whistle of yours, you know you want to." 

Roger smiled flatly and set his headphones down on the floor next to the Red Special, who was resting lazily on her stand while Roger's vocal chords marched valiantly into hour two of 'dog-whistling' as Freddie so flatteringly put it. 

"Yeah," he said indignantly, swaggering towards the door, "When my throat feels less like a porcupine's arse." 

"Should put that line in a song," John said cheerfully over Freddie's shoulder into the microphone, "Scans as a masterful double-entendre." 

Brian (reclined on a ratty sofa behind the mixing desk, long legs dangling like jungle vines) snorted. 

"And I'm the one with my mind in the gutter," Roger muttered, slamming the door shut and plonking himself directly on top of Brian's midriff. He let out a guttural grunt and mumbled something about 'far heavier than you look.'

"So you're really refusing to record any more?" Freddie asked, bottom lip jutting out in a way that would, in a toddler, have preceded a tantrum. 

"I shall record more," He spoke haughtily as he edged forwards onto the edge of the sofa to allow Brian to manoeuvre himself into a sitting position, "When my throat feels less like-"

"Yes yes, do shut up about this fucking porcupine," Freddie huffed with a dismissive waft of the hand. 

"Why are you so obsessed porcupine anatomy?"

"Should we block off all exposed cupboards just in case?" John asked, an amused smile playing on his lips, "You know, just in case we end up with 'I'm In Love With My Spiky Rodent' nestled in the middle of the album." 

"Deaks, you're a genius, where did I leave my song book," Roger said drily, "Seriously though, I'll sound like shite if I do any more overdubs now. The critics would have more of a bloody field day with that than if the song just sounded a bit... Less than the musical equivalent of Homer's Odyssey. Which I assume is what we're going for." 

"More... If Aretha Franklin got her hands on the Illiad, but that's beside the point. Come on Roggie," Freddie reached over and ruffled Brian's hair. Brian screwed his eyes up in annoyance but didn't shake him off. "Bri was an obedient little poodle and did all of his yesterday."

"Bri's a fucking suck up," Roger huffed. He batted Freddie's hand away from Brian's hair. "I don't know why you're in such a rush anyway. We've got all the time in the world now that Trident aren't snapping at our heels." 

"Like the piranhas they are," John said lowly, snapping a loose thread off his jumper. 

"He has got a point, Fred." 

Freddie folded his hands under his chin and his eyes misted over, "Stardom fades quickly, darlings. We're stars right now, but fairly soon we could be... What that thing spacey thing you get all smart and scholarly about, Bri?" 

"Zodiacal dust."

"Yes, zodiacal dust. Just... Insignificant fragments of what could have been, bits of memories, names thrown about at the dinner table when conversation slips to 'Whatever happened to so-and-so.' And the chances of that happening are far higher if our recording schedule is compromised by, say... Someone deciding to procreate, for example." A pointed look at John. "Or have a near death experience." A pointed look at Brian. 

The room temperature seemed, all of a sudden, to drop a couple of degrees as tension settled itself between the molecules. 

"...was hardly a decision," Brian muttered, flushing red and shrinking into himself like a violet. The hepatitis ordeal and all the subsequent ordeals it brought with it were a sore point in Brian's memory, albeit a foggy one. The feeling of utter uselessness had sent him sinking into a blackness that he feared would always linger, casting occasional television static over his senses and thoughts. 

It certainly wasn't something he could laugh about just yet. 

He bowed his head and stared at his fingers folded in his lap. Roger's hand appeared on his thigh, and he felt Freddie's on his shoulder. 

"I know love, I'm sorry, that was callous. I wasn't thinking, it was just an attempted piece of leverage to get Blondie back in the box." 

Brian sighed and schooled his face into a flat smile. 

"I know," he patted the hand on his shoulder before swatting it away, "And you're right, we shouldn't waste a moment. Back in the box, Rog." 

Brian stood up decidedly, and held out his hands. Roger groaned as he was hoisted up. 

"Right, you win Freddie. As usual," he sighed exaggeratedly, with a long suffering shake of the head. "But we're compromising, you're getting me coffee. Strong. With one and three-seventh of a sugar." 

"Two sugars then?" 

"One and three sevenths. Don't make me make you count the grains." He waggled his finger like a schoolmaster under Freddie's nose as he passed him on the way to the box. 

Freddie rolled his eyes and made for the door. He stopped with his hand halfway to the handle, turned around and made direct eye contact with John, who raised his eyebrows. 

"Do you know how to use the coffee machine?" 

"Not a fucking clue."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lot of stuff in here taken from the 'Days of our Lives' documentary and also... What I guess could be called Queen urban legend. Have fun feature spotting!  
> Comments would be much appreciated!!


	3. Bier

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here comes the angst train. Choo choo!

 

Lightening was cracking outside the window, hard, fast and bright. Thunder was rumbling beneath his feet, low, deep and ominous. Brian dragged his forefinger down the condensation on his glass, as though painting himself a path away from the misery that was stirring in his gut. The German language radio was chattering away, and his conversational Deutsch was poor enough that it was incomprehensible.

He settled back into the white noise, and grimaced when it inevitably melted into the voices of his band mates.

Snide dismissal from John.

Disinterested dismissal from Roger.

Slurred dismissal from Freddie.

Three overlapping instances of 'we don't need a guitar part there.' A single, soul destroying, horrifically smug instance of, 'I'll play the guitar part there.'

Playful insults that unknowingly cut to the core, smiling comments about, _ah look at Bri, single handedly trying to keep glam rock alive, bless him._

Significantly less playful insults intended to cut to the core, littered with profanity and truths that hit a little too close to home.

( _godhowcananyonestandyouyou'resuchaninfuriatinglypedanticperfectionistitsnowonderthatyourmarriageisfallingapartsorrybutitstrue_ )

The words swirled into a screaming cathedral hymn, culminating in a soaring crescendo of 'we don't need you any more' that he's not sure if anyone actually said or if his terrified conscience invented. It hardly matters though, because it sounded so much like them, all of them at once and they're hardly singing anymore they're just screaming screaming screaming screaming screaming-

He slammed his fist down on the table and let out a scratchy groan from the back of his throat.

He felt eyes burning into the back of his neck - nobody knew him here, so at least he wouldn't have a scandal on his hands - and he coughed awkwardly and shifted in his seat. Slamming a couple of fifty mark notes on the table, he downed the last of his drink in one and scooped up his coat from the back of his chair. He hadn't drunk close to a hundred marks worth of beer - he wasn't that far gone - but he didn't have the energy to count. _Better than putting it up my nose,_ he thought bitterly, mind flashing with images of Freddie's crystal-coated nostrils, pinprick pupils and shaking fingers.

He wandered outside into the remnants of the storm, dulled to a drizzle. His hair was going to match the ominous storm clouds and engulf him if he stood in the damp for much longer.

The thought of his crisp hotel sheets both beckoned and warned him away. He undoubtedly needed sleep - the pricking of his eyes and lethargy in his bones told him that - but if he went to bed, he might just never get up again. He let his mind wonder for a moment if anyone would notice, then batted the thought away. Of course someone would - Jimmy really wanted a new bike.

The thought, trivial as it was, guided him into a phone box to call a cab. He dug his hand into his pocket and felt the change rattle in his pocket. The change... And nothing else. _Shit_. He'd left all his money in the bar. He had no money for a cab.

In London of course, that wouldn't have been a problem. "The one with the hair" from Queen would have been able to hop into a cab with a polite smile and probably pay with a lock of aforementioned hair. But not in Munich.

Nothing ever goes his way in Munich.

He almost wished that the dam would break and he'd start sobbing - at least then he'd have tear tracks to show for how utterly wrong he and everything felt - but it didn't. He just sighed, ran a hand through his hair and began to evaluate his options. He had two. Bunk down in the phone booth or wander until he found somewhere more spacious.

Unless, there was someone still in the studio. He checked his watch - 2:36am - and realised that it was the longest of all possible long shots, but he wasn't doing anything else with the copper in his pocket. The coins made a melodic tinkly sound as he pushed them in. Perhaps they would have made it onto one of their earlier albums, when being experimental was still 'cool.'

Brian was so convinced that he'd remain stranded in the rain that he almost jumped out of his skin when someone picked up.

"Hello?"

Oh. He certainly hadn't been expecting that.

"Fred."

"Oh, Brian. This is a funny old time, love. What is it, want me to sing you a lullaby?"

Brain laughed breathily and nearly choked on it.

"Er... No, no. I'm uh..."

"Are you alright?"

He heard a rustle of fabric that told of Freddie standing. There was a frown in his voice.

"Yeah, yeah I'm alright, I'm just uh... Stranded."

"Stranded?"

"Yeah uh... I haven't got any money and I'm... It's raining."

He sounded pathetic, even to himself.

"Do you want me to send a car?"

Freddie's voice was gentle, like the one he used on orphaned baby hedgehogs.

"Uh... Yeah, please."

"Alright."

Silence fell for a and the line continued to crackle.

"Bri?"

"What?"

"You need to tell me where you are, love."

Brian blinked and pinched the bridge of his nose.

"Right, right yeah, uh..." He squinted to read the sign across the road, and told Freddie in a terrible German accent.

"Alright, stay put. You'll be warm and dry soon enough."

"Thanks, Fred," he said, and the extent to which it sounded like a sigh of relief was deafening. "Bye."

"Bye, darling."

A man with a shaven head was lingering outside the booth, pointedly turning his coins over in his hand, so Brian stepped back out into the rain. He stood with his toes hanging off the pavement, doing his best impression of a drowned puppy, until a black car pulled up a foot or so behind him. Even in the low light, he recognised the blonde shock of hair that belonged to one of Freddie's roadies and gave him a curt nod.

His hand was hovering over the handle, when the door suddenly opened from the inside. Brian jumped back in surprise, as a crystal clear voice said, "Fucking hell, you're soaked, love." Elegant, piano playing fingers wrapped around his wrist and pulled him inside the vehicle.

The car's heating hit him like a sandstorm and he coughed chestily as they moved off the spot. Freddie patted him on the back a couple of times. Brian looked at him with confused eyes.

"You didn't have to come," he spluttered once he'd caught (most of) his breath.

Freddie attempted a nonchalant shrug, but he'd never claimed to be an actor. "Wanted to know what the beer's like here." A pause. "What's the beer like?"

"Tastes like..." A pause. "Beer."

"Hmm."

Abba was playing on the radio. It rather ruined the tone.

Freddie reached out and took Brian's hand in his. He surprised himself by not instinctively pulling away. Rather, he instinctively closed his fingers around Freddie's.

"You're not very happy at the moment, are you?"

Brain huffed out a humourless laugh.

"No. Not really. S'not your fault though." He tapped his temple with his free hand. "M'predisposed to... This. Apparently."

Freddie smiled sadly. "I know. But it can't help. This album... It's not exactly you, is it. And we're not doing a great job of making it... You."

Brian shrugged defeatedly. "The world of music isn't 'me' anymore. There's no place for classic rock right now."

Freddie shook his head slightly, with a ghost of a genuine smile playing on his lips. He reached out and cupped Brian's chin with his forefinger and thumb.

"So carve. One. Out." He tucked a lock of hair behind Brian's ear. It sprang straight back. "Although maybe not yet. Deaky needs to say his piece, as it were."

Brian laughed, and this time it was closer to genuine.

"There you are!" Freddie's smile faded, and his voice lowered. "Don't bury yourself in your head, love. I'll always try to dig you out, but a shovel's as breakable as anything."

"Yeah... You will won't you," Brian spoke almost wistfully, "You'll always try to dig me out."

He was disappointed in himself. In his own misery, he'd almost forgotten how fully and how deeply Freddie Mercury cares.

"Of course. You're my brother. No... More than that. You're my... Deeper than brother... Soul brother. You're my soul brother."

"Very poetic," Brian whispered, and he was closer to tears than he'd like to admit.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Your regularly scheduled bandmate fluffy bants shall return shortly. 
> 
> Comments would mean the world.
> 
> Thanks!!

**Author's Note:**

> Hi lovelies!! Thanks so much for checking this out. As much as I'm trying to be historically accurate, this is a work of fiction so 1) please suspend your disbelief and 2) please treat this as... Fiction!
> 
> Comments would mean the absolute world.  
> Thanks again!


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